Page 42 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter thirty-six

Sawyer

“I brought you something.” He sets two cups of coffee on the desk, then settles in his office chair. “Wasn’t sure how you take it, so that one’s black”—he nods to the one on my right, then the one on the left—“that one’s loaded with cream and sugar.”

I snag the second option and grin. “All the cream and sugar, always.” Eyes closed, I take a slow sip, savoring the creamy sweetness. Perfection.

With a snicker, he pulls a handful of sugar packets and little white cups from his suit pocket. He spreads them out on the desk and pops the lid of the other coffee open. “On that, we are aligned.”

I hide my grin behind my cup. Never in a million years would I have assumed this man liked sweet coffee.

Once he’s dumped in the sugar and cream and procured a wooden stir stick from his pocket to mix it all in, he replaces the lid and clicks his mouse, bringing his computer to life.

“Catch me up on last week’s discussion posts,” he prompts as he slides his glasses into place, focusing on the emails loading on the screen in front of him .

Early on, I thought he was an asshole who couldn’t be bothered to give me even half his attention at any given time.

In the time we’ve spent together since, I’ve learned he’s a master of multitasking.

His ability to skim and sort through his emails while holding a thoughtful conversation is actually pretty damn impressive.

Now that I understand him a little better, I’m jealous of his efficiency.

While he types out an email, I set my cup down and pull out my purple folder.

My system for managing this class involves color-coded folders and lots of handwritten notes, but it works well for me.

Mercer teases me about my love of pen and paper, but writing down information allows for easier absorption.

Plus, if I have to write out notes, he’s forced to slow down.

With the way his mind works, he could very easily bulldoze me during these updates without meaning to.

“Most of last week’s commentary surrounded the students’ opinions about using assistive artificial intelligence for research and analysis. They were split down the middle regarding the use of generative AI for those same types of tasks.”

Mercer hums, giving me his full attention. His stubble is more pronounced today, the dark hair on his jaw catching my attention. “What were the actual splits?”

I press my lips together to hide my grin. I knew he’d ask. And honestly, I was curious myself. “Eleven students were completely against the use of generative AI,” I say as I pull out the notes I took last night. “Six said it depends on the context, and the other fourteen were open to using it.”

Mercer tips his head back, then forward and back again. A habit I’ve noticed that suggests he’s lost in thought.

“Deduct points for the six who said it depends on the context. I don’t care for opinion straddling when the prompt clearly told them to defend an opinion.”

With a nod, I make myself a note.

“What are your thoughts on the subject, Ms. Davvies?”

Amusement rolls through me. I knew he was going to ask me that, too. I can argue both sides, but it’s clear he wants a definitive stance.

“I’m against generative AI in all applications.”

He cocks one eyebrow. The dark, defined arch creeps up over his glasses, the look alone sparking to life a heady tension in my core that makes it hard to focus .

Good grief, he’s disarmingly handsome. I’ll never get over how intense his dark brown eyes appear when they’re framed by his glasses. Or the way his undivided attention simultaneously warms me from the inside and makes me squirm, as if I’m a specimen he’s studying under a microscope.

I force myself to look away. If I don’t, I run the risk of shamelessly ogling him.

“I’m surprised,” he muses. “Since you’re studying information and library science, I thought you would be all for the vast and broad applications of artificial intelligence.”

“No.” My spine snaps straight. “Don’t get me wrong—it absolutely has its place and has the potential to be a remarkable asset to so many fields of study. But any time gen-AI has to mimic morality or steal creativity to do its job, I’m against it, full stop.”

He turns his chair to face me head-on.

“You have the heart of an artist,” he alleges.

I square my shoulders, more than ready to engage him in this debate.

“Perhaps. But I don’t hold a modicum of respect for anyone who thinks products created using artificial intelligence can be categorized as art. Context is king. AI cannot replace the informed intuition of a human. Nor can it ethically create, which is essential to marketing.”

Lips pursed, he rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers. “What is art,” he says, “if not the tangible expression of inspiration? At the heart of every marketing initiative is the drive to inspire. So is all marketing art?”

“No,” I counter. “Art can and does exist without the expectation of ROI and profitability.”

He drums his fingers on the glass top in front of him, the muscles in his forearm dancing, and leans in closer. “I would argue that art for art’s sake cannot exist in a late-stage capitalistic society.”

He’s not wrong, but his argument sends a thrill through me, urging me to continue the debate.

“What about the classics?” I challenge. “What about art that was created thousands of years ago?” I look him right in the eye, my chin lifted. “Art is a universal language of self-expression. It existed long before it was required to serve a specific purpose in a capitalistic framework.”

He regards me, the spark in his eyes lighting up my insides.

“But with time, art increases in value, not because of the nature of the art or the quality of the piece, but because of its age,” he says. “Despite the intention of the artist at the time of creation, ‘the classics’ and any other art that exists today must exist in a capitalist framework.”

Damn.

Smirking, he brings his coffee to his lips. After a long draw, he sets it down again and pins me with a look. “Do you concede the point, Ms. Davvies?”

“No.”

I don’t want to give in. I could debate with him all day.

He cocks one eyebrow, then presses, “No, but…”

Shoulders slumping, I sigh. “No, but I’ve got nothing. And now I’m depressed.”

He barks out a laugh, and a little thrill shoots through me once more. Debating with Mercer is exhilarating. But making him laugh is a pleasure all its own.

Our verbal sparring energizes me. His knowledge intrigues me. I could listen to him talk all day, and I love picking his brain. Now that we’ve found a rapport, he’s so open and willing to share.

Our weekly meetings have devolved into part status update, and part captivating conversation. I haven’t felt this invigorated conversing with someone since my dad.

We would spend hours upon hours sitting on hard bleachers while the boys practiced, engaging in heated debates just like this.

Once I was old enough to have a phone, we’d use a shared file in the Notes app to keep track of the topics or moral quandaries we’d come up with throughout the week.

Come Saturday, the debates would begin. We’d get through as many topics as we could, then add anything we didn’t get to discuss to the following week’s agenda.

I still have all the notes saved on my phone, and handwritten in a notebook, just in case technology ever fails me.

As Mercer shifts in his chair, catching my attention, I close and lock the steel door on the box containing that line of thought. For the sake of my own mental health, I can’t think about my dad right now. Class starts in an hour, and I’ve got a full day after that.

I reach for my coffee to give myself something to do but, still off-kilter, swipe three empty creamer cups onto the floor in the process.

“Good grief.” With a roll of my eyes, I slide off my chair and crawl under the desk to clean up the mess.

Mercer pushes back, probably to give me space, causing a little more light to flood the area .

I spot two of the empty cups right away and snatch them up while I scan the floor for the third.

As I search, I come across a small puddle of cream on the chair mat. “Hey,” I say, holding out a hand. “Can you hand me a tissue?”

His chair creaks as he shifts above me. Then he pushes back farther.

“Here,” he snaps.

The grit in his tone makes my heart rate skyrocket. Gone is the playful, witty professor I was bantering with moments ago. This man sounds like the professor I met on the first day of class, terse and annoyed.

The tissue floats to the ground, barely missing my outstretched hand. Heart climbing up my throat, I glance up. What is his pr—

My thoughts jumble and vacate my head completely as I take in the way Mercer looms over me, his legs spread wide.

His lids are heavy, but that doesn’t temper the storm brewing in his obsidian eyes.

Oh.

He doesn’t look like he’s angry with me.

He looks like he wants to devour me.

I lick my lips on instinct.

He tracks the movement with a quiet hiss, then homes in on my mouth and grips the armrests of his chair.

My God.

It hits me in this moment just how compromising this position is. I’m on my hands and knees, hovering beneath the desk, practically between his legs.

Heat pools in my core, even as I snatch the tissue off the floor and shuffle back.

I wipe at the spilled cream, ignoring the dampness gathering between my thighs, then desperately scan the ground for the third container.

When I catch sight of it beneath one of the wheels of his chair, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Don’t move,” I instruct as I inch forward and snag the pesky cup.

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it,” he rasps.

My cheeks flame, his tortured, gruff tone causing my breaths to go shallow.

I peek up from beneath my lashes, ensnared the moment our gazes collide .

As he watches me, I find myself anchored to the spot. Above me, he grips his armrests, as if forcing himself to stay where he is, even as his wide, dark eyes flit from my face to my chest.

I glance down, following his line of sight. It’s then that I realize just how much cleavage I’m putting on display.

I should back up. I should stop this, whatever it is.

Instead, I inch forward, just a fraction.

The sharp inhale above me stops me in my tracks.

I crane my head back, eyeing him but also giving him a better look down my cardigan, and drag my tongue along my parted lips.

A sharp knock startles me, and I rear back, smacking my head on the edge of the desk.

Mercer hisses through his teeth, shoves up out of his chair, and crouches in front of me.

I bat at him, panicked. He doesn’t have time to worry about my clumsiness. He needs to focus on the person on the other side of his office door.

He doesn’t seem to feel the same sense of urgency. With gentle hands, he cups my face and turns my head from side to side, inspecting it.

“Mercer,” I hiss. “Someone’s at the door.”

Shit. Someone’s out there, and we’re in here, doing—god, what were we even doing?

He lets out a low chuckle. “I know. Breathe, Ms. Davvies.”

“You have to get that.” I grip the edge of the desk and pull myself to my feet.

“I have to make sure you’re okay first,” he counters.

My heart stutters. Okay?

I’m anything but okay.

I’m a flustered mess. My skirt is all twisted on my hips from crawling on hands and knees, and my head is throbbing where I made contact with the desk. Then there’s the warmth low in my belly and the arousal soaking through my panties.

I’m a mess. For him. Because of him.

But I’m mostly concerned about getting caught like this. “I’m fine,” I grit out, shooing him away.

He takes a single step back, his expression one of pain, like it hurts him to create that distance. Then he assesses me up and down once more.

The visitor knocks again, and my heart lurches in panic.

With a sigh, Mercer murmurs, “Please sit down.” Then he finally strides to the door.